Today is Winter
by Whitefang1407
Summary: "There are three things I know for sure about winter. One: never trust a plastic Santa. Two: eggnog chai is, quite simply, the liquid manifestation of supreme comfort. And three: Eren Jaeger is a table thief." College, Christmas, and coffee with Eren, from Mikasa's POV.
1. Table Thief

**Hey everyone! I decided to throw this out there because it's been rattling around in my head, and I thought it might be kinda fun to write. Also, it's Christmas time, so I thought it might be appropriate. Anyway...I'm not exactly positive where I'll end up with this one...I have a few ideas, though, so we'll see. Let me know what you guys think?**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Monday**

* * *

Today is winter.

Well, it's been winter for over a month, actually. I know because it's marked on every calendar and professors announce it the morning of, like it's a holiday all its own, before they move on with their lecture like any other day, and "winter" lies forgotten in the shadow of autumn's leaves. I know because reds and greens and music-with-bells and plastic Santas have invaded all of the big department stores (these are the ones I avoid. _Never_ trust a plastic Santa—no matter how warm those rosy cheeks might appear. Ceramic Santas are a little better, but they're still questionable). I know because the first snow has fallen and melted; now, as Christmas approaches, I can see the little ones as they peer out of their living room windows, tiny hands pressed against the glass, urging the _cold-white-joy_ to return.

Yes, winter has been here for some time now.

But today? Today, in my mind, it is truly and thoroughly winter. I know because I walk into my favorite coffee shop and I see, scrawled in (drawn, not written) letters the words _Eggnog_ _Chai_.

Oh, yes. Today is winter, indeed.

Now, this coffee shop— _my_ coffee shop, as I have lovingly (and secretly) dubbed it—is not a very well-known place. It's on a side street downtown, with a red brick storefront and a worn sidewalk and an "Open" sign that only lights up three-quarters of the way, so it actually reads "pen." The cafe shares a building with a bakery and an old sushi place, each situated on either side of it. They press in so closely that from the outside the shop appears cramped: the disgruntled middle child who has to sit between two obnoxious siblings on a long road trip. The three stores also share the same ventilation system (they used to be one shop; the owner tells me it was a small department store or something. I'll bet the plastic Santas ran it out of business). Because of this, there are days when smells from the obnoxious siblings leak into the coffee shop. It's not such a bad thing when the bakery wins the day. Sticky buns and poppy seed muffins and made-from-scratch breads provide quite a warm, comforting scent, after all. But when the sushi place comes through...well, let's just say I know the shop well enough to have the good sense to stay away on Tuesdays. Sushi _always_ wins on Tuesdays.

But today is a Monday and not a Tuesday, so I pull my evergreen muffler up over my nose to stave off the wind and I see the sign that reads _Eggnog Chai_ through the window, and I know: today is winter.

I push open the door with a sense of homecoming and tug at the collar of my jacket. Petra, the owner, is manning the counter today.

She sees me enter and gives me a smile. "Hey, Mikasa! Having the usual?" she asks, whisking a strand of shoulder-length hair behind her ear. Today it is a deep auburn. She dies it every other month—always a natural-looking color, but so far this one seems to match her personality best: warm and welcoming, with subtle highlights of a bright, joyful perseverance.

"Yes, please. With eggnog." I pull lightly at my scarf until it covers just the end of my chin.

Petra nods. "Can't believe it's that time of year," she says, reaching for a twelve ounce cup. It's a solid, Christmas red, devoid of any Santas or reindeer or northern stars, but holiday-ish just the same. "Got a lot of homework today?"

I tug at the strap of my backpack with a sigh. "Not too much...mostly reading."

"Ah, nice." Petra begins steaming the milk with a faint smile. I'm not really one for small talk, but she and I have an understanding, a sort of common ground, in which she asks simple questions and I give simple answers, and in doing so we remain suspended in comfortable proximity, each grateful for the other's presence.

Petra finishes my chai and I pay with neatly-folded bills before dropping my usual tip in the jar. She wishes me luck on my homework, I nod my thanks, and then I take my Christmas cup of winter and savor the rush of warmth it provides against my palm.

One of the best things about my coffee shop is that it is not just a coffee shop. It is also a bookstore. And bookstores carry real books with real pages and not Kindle or Google ones, so they can be flipped through and smelled and appreciated. This is why it is also my best friend's favorite coffee shop. Armin can't resist the scent of fresh books (I prefer well-aged ones, myself. It is something we debate far more often than I'd care to admit).

The left side of the shop is largely reserved for said books; there is, however, a single table in the corner, boxed in by a couple of shelves. It is an older table—round, with scuffed chairs and hand-carved trim and one leg that is slightly off-center, so it wobbles a bit if you put too much weight on one side. But most importantly, it is secluded, and surrounded by books on three sides with a window on the fourth, strategically placed as an avenue for pensive daydreams and heavy sighs. It is a perfect location for quiet conversations or the exceptionally introverted.

Over the last two years, I have staked my claim on this table. It is, in essence, _my_ table, from 2:30 p.m. to 7:00 (barring Sushi Tuesdays). Armin joins me occasionally; he often prefers to study at the university's library. My cousin, Levi, also stops in now and then—mostly, I think, because he has eyes for Petra. But apart from them, it's just me. In my coffee shop. At my table.

Comfortably alone.

So when I come around the corner and see Not-Armin-Not-Levi sitting there, I stop short.

He doesn't notice me at first. His head is buried in a textbook, the title of which I can't see. He's wearing a red sweatshirt under a black peacoat (it must be old, because one of the sleeves is slightly tattered around the cuff. Why only one, though? Why?), and a charcoal-grey beanie lies on the table next to an open laptop and a long, looped cord for his earbuds. The remaining surface of the table is littered with various items: a dog-eared notebook, two red pens, three crumpled gum wrappers, and a number two pencil with a partially-chewed eraser. His shaggy brown hair is long enough that it's almost in his eyes when he leans over.

And his eyes...they flicker from where they've been thoroughly fixed on the textbook page, and they lock onto mine.

Sharp. Alive. Familiar, somehow, as though I've seen them in passing when I'm walking the halls of the university. And they're green—not the common, muddled green that some people have: drying grass with a bit of dirt thrown in—but a vibrant, uncanny sea-green, electric and piercing and endless all at once.

I stare at Table Thief. He stares back. And then, just as he is about to remove an earbud and his mouth opens to say something, I whisk around and scurry back to the other side of the coffee shop, where a secondary table squats resignedly against the far wall. I've only used it a few times before (and only on Saturday mornings, when a knitting club composed of four elderly ladies occupies my table).

I set my backpack down with a disgruntled _huff_ and pull out my textbook on Renaissance and Baroque art; I'm not particularly fond of the class, but I needed another art credit, and it was either that or a painting course. The historical elements of this class, at least, are interesting, and it has spared me the embarrassment of attempting to slap some paint on a blank canvas. With a sigh, I remove my jacket—but not the scarf, never the scarf—and settle myself onto a chair with my back to the wall so that I can observe my surroundings.

I take a sip of chai as I flip through the pages. It's outrageously rich—something I'm not usually keen on, but when it comes to this season, the combination of the eggnog and the chai creates something truly perfect: a liquid manifestation of supreme comfort. I set the cup down with a delicate _tap_ and begin to read.

* * *

It's been an hour. Table Thief can't stay back there forever, right? When he leaves, I can return to my oasis.

I sigh. I take another sip of my beverage, savoring the richness while calculating the miles I'll need to run in the morning, and then I return to my studies.

It is now 4:02 p.m. The last few sips of my chai have gone cold. I have watched twelve customers come and go, the sun has dipped below the horizon, and I've caught myself chewing lightly on my eraser not just one, but two times. I'm nearly finished with my assigned reading for the next few days...perhaps I'll read ahead, though.

No sign of Table Thief. Who does he think he is, anyway? And does he go to the same school, or am I imagining things?

I return to the Renaissance era. Green eyes stare back at me.

* * *

At 6:12 p.m., I check my phone and find no messages. Armin will still be studying. Levi is working. Ymir and Jean are on the school's intramural basketball team, and Sasha is hosting a welcome party for new members of her Culinary Club.

I tap my pencil against the open page of my book, frowning. Winter evenings are often like this—slow and relatively uneventful. In the spring, tennis keeps me occupied, but for tonight I'm on my own.

Not that I really mind the slowness, or the _aloneness_ , even. It seems to coincide well with the peaceful atmosphere of winter.

Still. Quiet. Like the snow.

I glance up at the sound of the door opening. A gust of cold wind rushes across the tables, just powerful enough to reach me and ruffle my ebony hair before it dissipates with a soft hiss. Out of habit I tug my muffler back up to cover my nose. Blinking, I realize that it's Table Thief, standing in the doorway, a backpack slung over his shoulder and that charcoal-grey beanie tugged over his head, little feathers of brown hair sticking out of the edges as though reaching for air. He pauses, glances back. Those green eyes find me. Our gazes lock. I hold my breath for some strange, unfamiliar reason, and then he smiles. It's a curious thing, vanishing almost as quickly as it appears, but it is bright just the same.

Then he ducks his head and trudges out into the cold, but the sea-green of his gaze remains until long past the time when I pack up my things and head back to the dorm.

* * *

 **Tuesday**

* * *

"Hungry?" I sit down beside Armin and hand him one of my protein bars. He's bowed over a _Differential Equations_ textbook, a calculator and an open notebook with line upon line of Numbers Nonsense scribbled down the page.

He smiles as he takes the bar, ever-so-grateful for even the smallest gesture of kindness. "Thanks," he says, glancing around for the librarian before carefully pulling apart the wrapper (Levi hasn't explicitly _banned_ most foods, but that doesn't mean his wrath is any lesser when students leave wrappers. Or crumbs. Or fingerprints.).

Armin happily takes a bite of the offering and peers over at me with a discerning blue gaze. "Sushi Tuesday?" he asks.

I nod grimly and pull out my art history textbook, plopping it down on the table with a sigh. The school library isn't a bad place to study, really. It is, after all, two whole floors of used books and computers and tables that are surrounded by more books and computers. The far wall is smattered with a myriad of high, bay windows that look out over our campus. It's always, _always_ clean here, of course, because Levi is in charge.

But it is also at school. Thus, it looks like school and it smells like school and there are people I know from school, and after hours of class, I usually need some air. Hence my love of that far table at my coffee shop—my oasis.

I wonder if Table Thief is there now. If so, I'm sure he's enjoying the smell of some very ripe fish from the obnoxious sibling next door.

Serves him right.

Still, as Armin and I turn comfortably to our respective textbooks, I find myself wondering about this mysterious thief, both familiar and foreign at once. I wonder what his name is. I wonder why the cuff of his sleeve is tattered. I wonder why his eyes are that specific shade of green, why they persist to stare back at me when I close mine. It's unsettling.

"Have you seen Jean today?" Armin asks after quite some time, pulling his head up to breach the tide of Numbers Nonsense.

I blink to clear my mind and pick at a stray thread on my scarf. "I haven't. Was he looking for me?"

"Well, he's always looking for you…."

I roll my eyes and flip to the next page of my textbook. Of course he is. Jean's persistence is almost admirable, but it's also pointless—unfortunately for him. He's a nice friend and all, but...well, I suppose that's it. He's just a nice friend (a pushy, somewhat arrogant, marginally nice friend). I blink again. Green eyes stare back at me. _Stop that_.

Armin clears his throat, pulling me to the present. "But anyway, he got in a fight yesterday."

I frown. "At the basketball game?" It's no secret that Jean is a bit of a hothead. He's been in more than one _altercation_ over the last few years. Especially when sports are involved. And girls. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine. A little banged up and all, of course. He's got quite the black eye." Armin's blonde hair glimmers as winter sunlight filters through the window, illuminating his small frame. "He was at a party last night after the game, and apparently he got into it with some guy from another dorm—Jaeger, I think his name is? I asked Ymir what it was about, but she wouldn't say."

"Hmm."

"Yeah. He should get his act together, you know? Before he gets into a fight he can't win."

I skim through a paragraph before looking over at him again. "Are we still on for tomorrow?" I ask him, eager to change the subject. "At Pen?" It's not the real name of my coffee shop, of course, but the nickname stuck almost as soon as the "O" in "Open" resigned.

Armin nods. "Of course."

Nodding, I pull my scarf up over my nose for a moment, considering. It will be nice to have Armin there tomorrow...especially if Table Thief strikes again. Sitting out in the open—the "normal" area—will be more bearable with the company of Armin's unfailing kindness. At times, it seems as though his friendship is the only buffer I have against the rest of this world, so prone to cruelty and cold.

A good scarf can only do so much to keep it at bay.

We don't hear him approach, but the low, bored tone of his voice is unmistakable. "Armin," Levi mutters from behind us, "those aren't crumbs I see, are they?"

Armin nearly jumps out of his seat. He looks back at the librarian, apology wide in the blue of his eyes. He hastily begins wiping the evidence into an open hand. "Sorry, sir!" he stammers. "I'll take care of it."

Levi grunts noncommittally. His grey eyes drift with feigned disinterest over to me, the most subtle flicker of amusement tugging at his lips, before the expression settles back into one of calm, measured boredom. "Ackerman," he murmurs, "did you pick out my Christmas present yet?"

I pull my muffler down and settle him with an equally level gaze. "No—not that I would tell you if I had. You shouldn't ask those things, you know."

"Why not?" He blinks slowly at me and picks an invisible _something_ from the sleeve of his well-pressed shirt. "Is it rude?"

"Some people think so."

"Do you?"

I help Armin with the last of his crumbs before answering. "Well, you're always rude."

Levi snorts. "Brat."

"Midget."

"Careful," he drawls, "I might just give you coal."

I roll my eyes at that. "You gave me coal last year."

"You deserved it."

I chuckle in spite of myself, a rare and light sound, before I turn back to my book. A patter of footsteps announces the approach of another student, who hesitantly asks Levi for help in finding a certain book. My cousin huffs a great sigh. Then he ambles after him, gliding across the library floor, while Armin and I are left to wallow in our textbooks.

* * *

 **Wednesday**

* * *

As far as the smell goes, Wednesdays at Pen are hit-and-miss. So when Armin and I shuffle in from the cold and are greeted by the sweet fragrance of the bakery next door—icing and raspberry filling and bread made from scratch—we release a collective sigh of appreciation. I order my usual chai from Petra (minus the eggnog today, as I can only take so much richness per week); Armin goes for a dark roast with a splash of cream.

Petra smiles up at me as Armin calculates his tip. "So," she begins, "you sharing your table now?" Armin shoots me a questioning look, his golden eyebrows arching high.

 _Sounds like Table Thief is back, then_.

"No." I flip down the collar of my jacket with a frown. "He's a thief."

"A _cute_ thief. Don't you think?" Petra hands me my chai, winking.

I'm glad my muffler is still high; it conceals the traitorous red glow of my cheeks. Before I can object, Armin steps in to rescue me, dropping his tip in the jar and lightly tugging on my sleeve. "Come on," he says, "we can sit over here. Thanks, Petra!" He raises his cup in gratitude before whisking me away.

We plod over to the secondary table, weaving around a happy couple who haven't decided on which drinks they want yet, and I tug my evergreen muffler down before sitting. Armin fishes _Differential Equations_ out of his pack. With precise purpose, he lines up his notebook, pencil, and calculator beside it—each one perfectly spaced and square—before he begins his work. I pull out my own textbook and start to read.

* * *

"So, who's the guy at our table?" Armin asks me after just over an hour of reading and sipping and observing other customers with a practiced expression of Levi-esque indifference.

I turn to the previous page of my book. "Not sure. He was here on Monday, but I didn't talk to him."

"Oh." His blue eyes drift tiredly down to his endless scribbles of Numbers Nonsense before he looks back up at me. "I know you really like that spot," Armin says. "Maybe we could share?"

I sniff. "No, he takes up the whole table with all of his stuff."

"Ah, so he's one of _those_." Armin blinks at me. "Well, maybe he'll make room if we ask."

I look up from my current page, where Caravaggio's _Sacrifice of Isaac_ and an in-depth analyzation of the piece have been holding my attention for the last fifteen minutes. My expression must be close to that of Abraham's right now: a mixture of surprise and rigid determination.

 _Sit with someone new? Someone we don't know? And a thief, no less! I think not_.

Armin interprets my look with ease. He sighs, shrugs, and returns to his Numbers Nonsense. I take a sip of my chai before returning to Abraham and Isaac.

He worries about me, I know. I suppose I can understand his concerns—my introverted, stoic nature and my penchant for isolating myself make it difficult for me to find new friends. But the truth is that I prefer having a small number of people I trust. Armin and Levi have been there for me since the Unspeakable Night, that horror, the one we never address anymore, and while I've managed to allow a few others into my life (at arm's length, of course), I'm content with the solidarity of Armin and Levi's companionship through all of my narrowly interspersed days and nights of solitude.

Isaac stares out at me from where he lies upon the altar, his eyes wide and scared. I sigh.

Armin glances up at the sound. He regards me for a moment, and then: "Want to browse some books? They should have a few new ones since last time."

"Sure," I agree, glad for the suggestion, and we leave our textbooks open and forgotten on the table.

Armin follows me across the cafe and over to the books section. I peek around the corner of one of the shelves, where my oasis is, and Table Thief is there because _of course he is_. In the moment it takes me to glance over at him I can see that he's exchanged his red sweatshirt and peacoat for a Christmas sweater. It's dark green with a patterned stripe of red across the chest; little white reindeer are knitted along the center of the pattern. His beanie lies on the table. His earbuds are in. He has four gum wrappers today instead of three, and the remnants of his eraser amounts to nothing more than a jagged stump. Table Thief's head is buried in his textbook—the same one as Monday's, by the look of it—and I step back into cover before he glances up.

I run my fingers along the spines of several books in front of me. I'm in the Mystery section; it isn't my genre, really, but Armin loves the challenge of a good crime novel. I slide an unfamiliar title out and hand it to him. Smiling, he flips through the pages, fanning the scent of unblemished pages toward himself, before reading the synopsis.

"Hmm." Armin scrunches his brow and hands me the book. I oblige him by giving it a good sniff— _pressed tree and black ink and something metallic_ —before offering him a thoughtful nod and replacing it on the shelf. We do this several times before shifting over to my favorite section, where all of the used books are kept. I dabble at first, sliding out a few that I haven't seen here before, but after several long minutes I go straight to my favorite. It's an old copy of _Les Misérables_. The pages are old enough that I can't make out the publication date inside the cover; the binding used to be a dark red, I think, but now it is mostly brown. The spine is tattered and tired from use. The first thirty-seven pages are stained at the top right corner, where its previous owner apparently spilled some coffee, and the smell—ah, the smell! It's perfect: aged and warm and ragged, all well-worn pages and cedar bookshelves and years and years of life. I flip to the middle of the book and unabashedly breathe in until my lungs can expand no further.

Armin looks on in amusement before he plucks another from the shelf: _The Call of the Wild_. "Are you going to buy it today?" he asks, flipping through the acknowledgments.

I hum thoughtfully as I turn a few more pages, skimming over the words. I read _Les Misérables_ only once, back in high school, and I quite enjoyed it. But because of this copy's age ("It's an antique," Petra always tells me), it's marked at $47.50, and I simply can't bring myself to pay that much. So I return regularly to make sure it's still here. And I wait. One day, perhaps, the price will go down—or I'll just bite the bullet and pay for the thing. Something tells me I won't regret it.

"Maybe after Christmas," I answer him, fanning the pages one more time.

And suddenly, as I am standing there with my nose shoved in the book and my scarf pulled low around my neck and my raven-black hair falling in locks across my face, I hear a voice drift over from the other side of the shelf.

"How's it smell?" the voice asks, and I _know_ it is Table Thief, somehow, even before the top of his head breaches the shelf and his sea-green eyes peer down at me.

I slap the book closed. Armin drops _The Call of the Wild_. Huffing, he scrambles to pick it back up, tenderly brushing off the cover. The green of Table Thief's eyes seems to brighten as he watches us fumble.

"Um, good," I stammer as I hurriedly place _Les Misérables_ back where it was, sandwiched neatly between the shelf's lower left edge and a copy of _Parenting for Dummies_ with a suspiciously vomit-colored stain down its spine. I brush a strand of hair out of my eyes and shoot Table Thief a wicked glare. "It's not polite to eavesdrop."

His dark eyebrows fall low. I assume he's frowning, but the shelf conceals everything below the upper half of his nose. "You think I was eavesdropping?" he snorts. "On you two book sniffers? Please."

"Well, that _is_ what it looks like," Armin interjects. His gaze is stern, but I can detect a sparkle of amusement in the curve of his mouth.

Table Thief rolls his eyes. "Nah, you've got it all wrong. See, here I was, minding my own business, doing some studying, when the sound of your... _sniffing_...interrupted my train of thought. You guys should really try to keep it down over there."

"There's no way you could've heard us through those earbuds," I say.

"Oh?" Whoops. He was fishing, and I took the bait. "How did you know I was wearing earbuds today?" Table Thief's eyes crinkle at the edges. "Were you _spying_ on me?"

I pinch the fabric of my scarf, clinging to its silky texture. "No, I just—"

"Uh-huh."

Armin looks between us, watching with an increasing amount of interest. There's a brief pause. Table Thief looks like he's about to return to his studies, but Armin stops him when he asks, "What were you studying for?"

Sea-green eyes divert from my shadowed face to Armin's. "Anatomy and Physiology," he answers. He releases a great, upward breath, ruffling the strands of brown hair that lie against his forehead.

"Oh. I hear that class is difficult," Armin says.

Table Thief sighs. He blinks once, slowly. "That's putting it lightly. Professor Hange's expectations are...severe." _So he does go to the same school_. He tips his head to the side, regarding us, and I can see the curve of his ear where his hair parts. "You guys look familiar," he murmurs. "Science majors?"

"Mechanical Engineering," Armin tells him.

Table Thief looks to me, and I swallow. "English."

He nods thoughtfully. "That explains the book sniffing," he chuckles. "Just kidding. But really….I'm majoring in Health Science—I plan to go into physical therapy, though."

"Nice."

"Yeah." He blinks. I still haven't seen the lower half of his face. "Well," Table Thief sighs, "I hate talking about school when I'm not at school. It makes me nauseous. So…."

"Me too," I say, almost surprising myself. I clear my throat. "Um...we should get back to our studies."

Table Thief nods. "Probably."

Armin gives me a suspicious look, but I quell whatever comment he's about to make with a furrowed brow, and together we turn to make that journey back to our textbooks, made long and arduous by dread.

"Wait," Table Thief stops us. He steps around the corner of the bookshelf, finally coming fully into view. His Christmas sweater looks even more festive up close—festive, and cheesy, and maybe a little endearing. But now that the lower half of his face is visible, I see what I didn't catch earlier: a spread of deep purples and scarlets at the left corner of his mouth, and a painful-looking gash through his upper lip—with more bruising—where, presumably, someone's fist collided with his face. He steps closer to us and extends his hand to Armin. "I'm Eren," he says. "Eren—"

"Jaeger?" Armin takes his outstretched hand and shakes it firmly. "Armin Arlert."

Eren blinks in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I had a hunch."

Table Thief— _Eren_ —offers his hand to me next. I take it carefully, letting go of my muffler to do so, and my grey eyes meet his. "Mikasa Ackerman," I say. His grip is firm, confident, but also strangely gentle. His skin is warm and dry against the clammy, cool mess of my palm, but if it bothers him, it doesn't show.

We step away; the air is cold against my skin where the ghost of his hand dissipates. "Ackerman," he muses, tipping his head up. "Like, Levi Ackerman? The librarian?"

I nod. "He's my cousin."

Eren chuckles. It's a light but unbridled sound, warm and happy and unfettered. "Holidays must be fun."

"You have no idea."

He hums pleasantly, tugging at the collar of his sweater, then gives us both a wide smile. "Well, book sniffers, it was nice to meet you guys. I'll see you around, yeah?" He asks the two of us, but he's looking intently at me, and a curious _something_ bubbles in my chest. Then he saunters back to his table; I'm left with the lingering impression of a firm but gentle handshake and a green sweater and green eyes and bright laughter.

I look over at Armin. He's watching me with this awful, cheeky grin on his face, and I attempt (unsuccessfully) to cover my blush with an indignant glare. "What?"

"Nothing," he chirps. But his tone does not say nothing. It says everything.

* * *

 **Well, there we have it! Thanks for reading. This was my first (posted) attempt at first person, and I hope I'm portraying Mikasa accurately! Leave me a review? Pretty please?**


	2. Matches, Muffins, and Memories

**Monday**

* * *

 _Thwack_.

I swing hard at the tennis ball, rotating my shoulders and reaching wide to strike the brightly-colored projectile with my racket. Electric, undiluted joy surges through my veins on impact; the ball goes spinning over the net and lands just before the baseline, arching back into the air as it reaches for the far wall. My opponent rushes across her side of the court, face pulled tight in concentration, her blue eyes flashing my way.

Annie reaches the ball before it bounces twice and reels back for a wicked return. Her racket flashes in the sterile light of the gym, white against the cool green of the court, and she swings through her shot with practiced ease. I anticipate the path of the ball before she strikes.

 _Thwack._ _Scuff_. _Pant_.

I kick off from the ground, my shoe sliding against the court's smooth surface as Annie sends the ball my way. Cool air rushes through my raven-black locks; I glide on gilded wings, cutting to the side, and as the ball rockets toward me I wind up for a backhand. Annie should know better—backhands are my strength. I throw my weight into the shot, leaning forward on one foot, and this time I shift my racket just slightly as I roll into my follow-through, putting an extra spin on the ball.

 _Thwack_.

Annie grunts as she kicks forward. The added spin causes the ball to catapult upward after the first bounce, reducing the shot's range, and she runs to cover the lost ground. The ball is still high when she reaches it. Annie pulls her racket back behind her shoulder, one hand outstretched as she lines up her target, and I know that this could go badly very quickly. I sprint to the far corner of my side. Annie leaps, her body arching as she comes down upon the ball with pure, undiluted energy.

 _Thwack_!

A blur of vibrant yellow-green spins toward me. Annie has yet to move back from the net; if she volleys my return, I'll be done for. Her shot zips closer, goading me on, and in the split second I have left, I step backward and pour my focus into the shot. Annie made a gamble by rushing the net. She's left her sides open, and if she fails to anticipate my return, she'll lose the match. I feign my shot at first, aligning my shoulders toward her left, but at the last second I step into my shot and swing fast— _hard_ —into the ball. There's a resounding _crack_ followed by a frustrated _huff_ from Annie and a clatter of muted _snap_ s as several of the strings on my racket break. My shot lands behind her. From my angle, I can't tell for sure if it was in. I wait for Annie's call. She stands there for a minute with her back to me, shoulders tense and rigid, and then her head drops slightly as she reaches up to brush white-blonde hair out of her eyes.

Annie turns around, her blue eyes clear and a little resentful and harboring just a modicum of respect. "In," she says. A slight smirk tugs at her lips. I glance down at the tattered remnants of my strings.

"Yeah, Mikasa!" Jean cheers from where he's sitting on one of the benches along the side. He slaps Marco on the shoulder, laughing. "I told you guys she would win!"

Sasha, who is sitting on the other side of Marco, finishes the remnants of her steamed potato. She throws her hands in the air. "Yes!" Crumbs scatter everywhere. "This means you guys are buying dinner Friday, right?"

Ymir rolls her eyes heavily and releases a huff of air, brushing Sasha's potato crumbs off of her jacket with an air of irritation. "Oi, Sasha, calm down. Marco and I are only buying as long as you promise not to order two desserts again."

"Aw," Sasha pouts. Her wide eyes flit to Marco. "What about two entrees?"

Ymir glares at her, tugging on the redhead's collar. "Don't prey on Marco's kindness. The answer to that is definitely 'no.'"

The group stands in unison as they prepare to leave. "But how am I supposed to choose between two of my favorite dishes?" Sasha whines, shoving her hands in her pockets.

"That's it. You're buying now."

"Hey!"

"Ah," Jean grunts and slings his backpack over his shoulder. "You did this to yourself, Potato Girl. You know better than to annoy Ymir."

"Ugh. I wish you guys would stop calling me that."

Marco turns to follow them out of the gym. "She's right—don't be mean, Jean."

"Lay off, Marco." Jean glances over his shoulder. "We'll meet you guys upstairs."

Armin, who has been watching this exchange with great amusement, finally pulls himself up from the bench. His blue gaze fixes on where Annie and I are still standing. "Good job, you two," he says. "That was a really good match!" Annie looks over at him, and his cheeks turn several shades of pink. "Um, you played really well, Annie. Uh...I mean, since Mikasa is the top-ranked player in our district, and everything."

It's strange, I think, how Annie's normally placid expression becomes slightly less so whenever she's around Armin. I watch as something close to a smile passes over her face—I don't believe I've ever seen a full-fledged Annie smile. Her stoicism reminds me of myself. Indeed, we're quite similar in some ways, and while we've had our differences in the past, I would consider her one of my friends now...competitiveness and regular disagreements aside.

"Thanks, Armin." Annie glances over at the closed gym door, where the others have disappeared. "You didn't take part in the bet?"

"Oh, uh, no." Armin runs a hand through his ruffled blonde hair.

"Mmm. Well," she sighs, throwing her racket over her shoulder, "I should go shower. I've still got homework to finish before class tomorrow. See you Friday?"

Armin smiles. "Yeah, of course."

Annie nods; her almost-smile makes another appearance before she turns to me. "Nice match," she says. "Next time, I'll kick your ass."

"We'll see."

Armin's gaze lingers after Annie as she stalks away. I move to the bench, where my bag is, and begin sliding my racket inside its cover. "You shouldn't lie, Armin," I tell the slight-framed young man.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him start. "What?"

"You bet on Annie." I turn my attention back to the racket in front of me. Slowly, I zip up the cover and rest it on the bench before pulling on my backpack. "You should've told her."

Armin coughs awkwardly. "H-how did you know that?"

I face him with a discerning gaze. "I just do." My lips pull into a slight frown. "But anyway, I guess that means you're buying dinner, too."

"Yeah," he sighs.

"Well, it serves you right for betting against me. I thought you were good with odds?" He sees my smirk and attempts to replicate it with one of his own, but I think that Armin is completely incapable of anything so disingenuous. He smiles instead, which is answer enough for me. I rest a hand on his shoulder. "You should tell her how you feel."

Armin grabs his own bag and we head for the door. "I don't know," he mutters. "Do you think she…."

"Yes."

"Oh." His cheeks warm slightly. Blinking several times, he gestures to my racket, safely stowed away in its cover. "So I guess you, uh, need another new set of strings?"

"Yeah," I shrug, allowing Armin his diversion for the moment.

"How many is that now?"

"Three, in the last few months."

"Wow!" He chuckles. "And it's not even tennis season yet...you really are a powerful player, Mikasa."

"I'll say. How did you get so good?" chimes a familiar voice from behind us. Startled, we both spin around, and I'm met with the ever-striking image of Eren Jaeger's green eyes.

 _How long has he been standing there_? I find myself reaching for my scarf out of habit, but my fingers close on thin air. I left the muffler in my bag before the match. "I see you've been eavesdropping on us again," I murmur.

Eren regards me with that curious expression of his, head tipped just slightly to the side. The mottled bruises around the corner of his mouth have almost healed; their ghost remains so faint that had I not seen them last week, I wouldn't know they had ever been there in the first place. "Well, I happened to notice your match from the viewing window up there." He points to said window, placed on the floor above us, where gym members passing by can get a full view of the courts. "I was just finishing my workout when I noticed a bit of a crowd up there. Naturally, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about." He blinks; shoves his hands into the pockets of his grey University hoodie. "But, uh, you didn't answer my question."

Armin watches me, watching Eren. "I've played since I was little," I simply say.

"Oh. Cool," Table Thief nods. "So, breaking strings is the norm for you, then?"

"I guess so."

"Mikasa is the top-ranked player in our district," Armin chimes in happily. I narrow my eyes at him, but he continues. "And beyond our district, actually. She won the national tournament last year."

Eren chuckles. "Damn," he says, "and here I thought you guys were a couple of nerds. The plot thickens." He frowns. "Not that I dislike nerds, or anything. Everyone is a nerd about something. I guess you're a nerd about book sniffing and tennis?" A curious feeling curls up in my stomach and makes itself at home. What is it, I wonder? A faint smile tugs at my lips. Curious, indeed. Eren watches me for a moment, and then: "Speaking of book sniffing...you guys planning on doing homework at the coffee shop today?"

Before I can say anything, Armin nods. "Yep."

"Cool," Eren says again. He hefts the strap of his bag, adjusting the weight to his other shoulder. "I was too. If you want, we could share that back table?" He runs his teeth over his bottom lip as he waits for our reply. Is he nervous? I can't tell.

This time, I'm the one to answer. "Sure." Armin looks sharply over at me; that cheeky grin is spreading across his face again.

Table Thief's eyes brighten, their sea-green hue dancing with unconcealed triumph. "Sounds good!" he smiles, and the three of us begin to make our way out of the court area in (surprisingly) comfortable silence. We slip through the doors and climb the stairs. I'm about to break off and head for the women's locker room when there's a strange, almost strangled noise from across the lobby. I recognize it immediately: it's the sound of Jean's narrowly-contained rage when he is perilously close to punching someone.

"Hey!" I can imagine the spittle flying from his lips before I turn and actually see it. His death glare is fixed rigidly on Eren's face. "You little shit, what the hell are you doing, talking to Mikasa?"

Eren drops his bag and squares his shoulders. "I can talk to whoever I want, asshole. Get out of my face!"

Jean strides across the room, already rolling up his sleeves. Sasha and Marco stare at the unfolding scene with mouths agape. Beside them, Ymir snorts. Her mouth forms words I can't hear, but I'm sure it's something along the lines of "What an idiot." I glance at Armin. _Are you kidding me_?

Before anyone can intervene, the two students collide at the center of the room, shouting obscenities. Jean grabs a fistful of Eren's sweater and yanks hard, reeling his arm back as he prepares to strike. Eren kicks out at the taller boy's leg. "Oi, knock it off! You're gonna rip my sweatshirt!"

"I don't give a damn about your sweatshirt, you little prick!"

"Screw you!"

"Eat it!"

They devolve into a series of kicks and punches. Eren takes a fist to the face; blood trickles from his nose. He lands a kick against Jean's ribs, who reels backward as the air is forced from his lungs. Eren attacks again, striking the winded Jean with a hard uppercut.

Jean snarls as his lip splits open. "You piece of shit, come here!" He lunges at Eren as soon as his breath returns.

Eren holds his fists up at the ready. "Horseface!"

"Freak!"

The thing about blind rage is that it's...well, _blind_. Taking this into account, I make my move and aim for Jean first, just before he collides with Eren. I sweep his legs out from under him in one smooth kick; he lands with an _oof_ on the carpeted floor. Eren lunges for Jean, but I meet him head on, ducking at the last moment and wrapping an arm around his waist before slinging him over my shoulder. He's not as small as Armin, but his lanky frame is still relatively light. He struggles for a moment as I carry him to the other side of the room. His fists ball up in the back of my shirt. "Oi, let me down! What the hell! That asshole!"

I roll my eyes. When I reach the far wall, I dump him on the floor. "Calm down."

"What the—" His eyes—rage-green and alive with heat—slowly begin to cool. "I can't believe...did you just…?"

"Yes."

"What the hell."

Behind us, Jean is slowly rising to his feet. He wipes a trickle of blood from his lips. Several gym employees come running down the hall, only to see that the chaos has already subsided. They rush over to Jean, asking what happened, but he waves them away.

I turn back to Eren. "You two will be lucky if they don't suspend your membership."

He grunts in disinterest. "Kirschtein started it. That horseface...you guys are friends?"

"Yes."

"Then, are you...I mean…." He hesitates, tugging at a crease in his sweater where Jean yanked on it. "A _thing_?"

I roll my eyes. "Spare me."

"What?"

I extend my hand; he stares at it for a moment, but then he seems to acquiesce that it's better than being carried. I pull him up to his feet. He brushes off his sweats. "So that's not a _no_ , then…."

I sigh as traitorous warmth creeps up into my cheeks. Eren doesn't see it, thankfully. He grumbles something as we walk back over to Jean, who is being tended to by a frantic, freckled Marco.

The tall, sandy-haired boy shoots Eren a murderous look. Before he can say anything though, Marco squeezes his shoulder. "Stop it, Jean. You'll get us thrown out with that temper of yours."

"Whatever." Jean's sharp eyes skate over to me. "I can't believe you're taking his side," he mutters.

I settle Jean with an equally sharp look. "I'm not siding with anybody. I stopped you guys before you tore each other's heads off over such a stupid argument." Jean shrinks a little beneath my condescension. "And you _did_ start it, Jean. Marco's right: you need to cool down."

Beside me, Eren crosses his arms over his chest. The two stare each other down for several long moments.

"I agree with Mikasa," Sasha pipes up, breaking the silence. "Why don't you two apologize, and then we'll all go to dinner on Friday?"

"Huh?" Jean and Eren gawk in unison as they turn to face her.

"No way am I apologizing to this asshole," Jean spits. "And I don't want him coming to dinner with us!"

Eren curls his lip. "Yeah, like I want to eat with you, horseface. I'll bet your diet consists of oats and hay."

"Take that back, you little shit!"

"Alright, you two," Ymir, silent until now, steps in between the two hotheads. A suspiciously gleeful look crosses her features—something we've all learned to be wary of. "That's enough. I think you should apologize, too, if only to make Friday more interesting."

Armin swallows. "I mean, it's better than being at each other's throats every time you cross paths. We could at least try to settle this peacefully?"

Eren looks over at me. His brow is scrunched and disgruntled, his bloodied mouth pressed into a thin line, and his green eyes expectant. He wants my opinion. Jean is watching me as well, a look of startled and curious jealousy flicking behind his gaze before it vanishes just as quickly.

Eren seems to detect my thoughts before I speak; he looks down at his feet for a moment. "I'm...sorry," he manages, having the decency to make eye contact with Jean.

The taller boy glares at him for a brief moment before he sighs. "Ah, they're right," he growls. "I started it. I guess...a truce, for now?"

"Yeah." Eren sniffs, wipes a spot of blood from his upper lip, then extends his other hand. "Truce." Jean takes his hand; they shake once, firmly, before parting.

"Yay!" Sasha throws her arms up, scattering more potato crumbs (whether those are from her previous potato, or if she somehow managed to eat another one when nobody was looking, I have no idea). "So, I think we should make these two pay for dinner. What do you guys say? Good idea, huh?"

Ymir snorts and brushes yet another slew of crumbs from her jacket. "Nice try, Sasha. You're still buying."

"Aw!"

"Don't start."

Sasha huffs a great sigh, stirring the bangs that lay across her forehead, before she looks back at Eren. "Dinner will be at seven. Don't be late, or I'll have to eat your portion for you!"

Eren chuckles. "Alright. Uh, where are we going?"

"The sushi place on sixth."

"Sixth? Like…?" He looks between Armin and I.

"Yep," Armin nods.

Sasha and the others turn to go. "See you there!" Jean gives the three of us a pointed look before he saunters after them, grunting. Sasha tugs at her backpack. "Jean, I'm calling you horseface from now on."

"Shut up."

"It's only fair, Jean," Marco says, "since you call her Potato Girl."

"Marco, I swear…." The conversation dissipates as the walk outside.

Armin shifts beside us. "Well, Eren," he says, "do you still want to study with us today?"

Eren hums in amusement. "You mean, am I going to blame you for having a shitty, horse-faced friend like Jean Kirschtein?" His green eyes flicker with a joviality that is only partial.

Armin smiles sadly. "He's not always so bad. He just lets his temper get the best of him, sometimes…."

"Ah." Eren sighs. "I do, too." He blinks over at me. "But yeah, I would still like to hang out with you guys, if you'll have me. I can meet you there after we've cleaned up?"

I nod. "Sounds good."

* * *

It's a bakery day at Pen. As we take our seats at the oasis table (after ordering from Petra, who, of course, gave me some very pointed looks when Eren was digging out his wallet, much to my chagrin and Armin's amusement), I glance down at Armin. "Scones?" I ask him.

He finishes pulling out his textbook and sniffs the air. "Hmm...muffins, I would wager."

"Blueberry," Eren adds. I catch the curve of his smile before he dips his head down, fishing for a pencil or something out of his bag.

I take a sip of my chai before setting it on the table. "Really?"

Eren unceremoniously plops down a notebook and two pencils (one with a fresh eraser, as he's chewed the first one to smithereens). "Yeah. You can't tell?"

"I don't know, I'm thinking poppy seed."

"Pfft. No, that's definitely blueberry. Or cranberry, if nothing less." He sniffs the air before nodding and glancing over at Armin. "Am I right?"

The blonde-haired boy presses his lips together as he considers. "Maybe. It does seem like there's a hint of fruit in there."

"See?" Eren smirks. "I have a world-class nose."

I chuckle softly. "I don't know…."

Table Thief pulls at the muffler around his neck—it's made from a type of fabric that appears blissfully warm and soft even before you touch it. The ends are lined with a small amount of fringe, and the color is a deep, welcoming wine-red: brick fireplaces and (real, not plastic) Santas and long walks through the snow. "Do I have to prove it to you?" Eren breaks me from my thoughts as he places the muffler in his bag.

"Prove what?"

He sighs. "That my sense of smell is world-class? Come on; let's go next door and see what they're baking."

Armin chuckles, already neck-deep in Numbers Nonsense, as Table Thief pulls lightly on the end of my sleeve, prompting me to follow him. I tug my own muffler—evergreen and worn—up over my nose as we prepare to step outside. I can feel Petra's thoughtful smile as she watches the vibrant boy all but drag me next door.

It takes only a few strides through a world of white for us to enter the bakery, where the white disappears and is replaced just as quickly with the color of warmth and comfort. Eren's eyes light up when he takes in the display: cases lined with glazed pastries of all kinds; cookies the size of your hand, packed neatly in gift baskets; golden breads and soft pretzels and berry pies with intricate designs cut into the tops. To our left, there's an assortment of fudge and soft candies on a spinning, columnar stand. Gift bags and various wrappings decorate the wall behind it. And there, atop the display case nearest to the counter, sits an assortment of today's fresh-baked goodies.

Muffins. Blueberry….

And poppy seed.

Eren's smile is wide. It's almost childlike, in a way—vibrant and joyful and _pure_. I don't believe I've seen one like it. Not for a long time. "This place...I've never been here before," he says, almost laughing. "It's _awesome_!"

"Yeah."

"Yeah? What do you mean, _yeah_? I mean, look at all of those cookies. And that fudge! Come on—" He reaches for my sleeve again, then proceeds to drag me around the store, stopping at every little thing that catches his eye. "Look at this snickerdoodle! Oh, wait, we have to try the peanut butter fudge, right? Right? Whoa...that _pie_! I'm in heaven. Aren't you? This is...it's just...so great!"

At some point, though I'm not sure when it starts, I find myself laughing. It's all just so unprecedented; being here, with Table Thief of all people, and he's so full of _life_ and vibrancy and purity that even this little detour to the bakery next door is like a vacation for him. He catches my soft laughter and he begins to laugh too, and pretty soon we're all laughing—Eren and me and Baker Lady behind the counter, who has been watching all of this, and I'm sure that Armin would be laughing if he were here, too.

I pull my scarf up; after quite some time of undiluted silliness Eren, who is bent with his hands pressed to his knees, looks over at me. He reaches out with two fingers and tugs my muffler back down. A curious smile graces his features, distracting from his split lip and bruised nose. "You shouldn't cover your face when you laugh," he says. "You have a nice smile."

Ten thousand-degree heat ignites in my chest and boils up through my veins, nearly lighting my face on fire. "Oh. Thanks." I fiddle with the end of my scarf out of discomfort, and he chuckles, wiping a few joy-tears from the edges of his eyes.

"Well," Eren straightens and nods toward the basket of muffins, "it looks like we were both right. Guess that means we both have world-class noses, huh?"

"Yep. We would be an unstoppable team at a sniffing competition."

"Damn. Let's find one." He hums happily and steps up to the counter. "But the real dilemma after coming here...is what do we get?"

I survey the collection of muffins, considering. "We'll have to try a fresh muffin," I say. "And...Armin loves peanut butter, so maybe we should bring back some of that fudge for him?"

Eren nods. "Alright. I'll buy."

"You bought our coffee today, though."

"So?" He raises an eyebrow at me. "That was just appeasement for stealing your table." I frown at him. "Yeah, Petra told me. Although I'm not exactly sure if I would call it _stealing_ , exactly, since this is a free country and all."

"Fine, but I'm buying next time."

"Oh? Next time, huh?" He smirks. "You saying you like me, Ackerman?"

"Stop."

"Don't worry. I won't tell horseface. We both know how he gets…."

I snort, eliciting another chuckle from Eren, who fishes out his wallet with a lingering smile.

* * *

The next several hours are spent on homework, I with a new paper to write and Armin with his Numbers Nonsense and Eren with his anatomy and physiology textbook. We snack on a blueberry muffin and Armin's peanut butter fudge; were it not still relatively early in the afternoon, I would be worried about spoiling dinner. Twice, we get up to browse books and stretch our legs. Armin lingers around the mystery section; I eventually end up back in the used section to confirm that my book is still there. Eren watches with a mild sense of amusement and pops a fresh piece of gum in his mouth. After the second time, I return to the table and sit before my open laptop, peering over the dimly-lit screen to see the pages of Eren's textbook. He's looking at a diagram of a femur, labeled with all of its distinguishing features.

"So...are you an anatomy and physiology nerd?" I ask him.

He blinks up at me. "Eh, no. I mean...when it comes to practice, maybe I will be." Eren sighs. Armin comes to sit back down and takes a nibble of his fudge. "I don't like studying. It seems like a waste, you know? I would much rather _do_ something than read about it."

"That makes sense," I concede, "But you need to study in order to know what to do."

Eren sighs again. "Yeah." He yawns, stretching his arms behind him until his shoulder pops, apparently relieving some of the tension in his muscles. The cuff of his sweater drifts down as he does so, revealing a bloody bandage over his hand. I noticed it when we first arrived here; it was clean back then, however.

"Eren," Armin says, "your hand..."

He brings his arms back down and sees the soiled bandage. "Damn. I, uh, hit Jean pretty hard earlier." He almost— _almost_ —looks ashamed. "Should've packed extra supplies…."

"Here." I fish through my bag until I find purchase on a compact little case at the bottom, where I keep some first aid items. Armin's cheeky grin reappears.

Eren stares at me, his mouth slightly agape, as I place the kit on the table. "You just...carry that around with you? Like, everywhere?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

My eyes find Armin's, briefly, but long enough to confirm that it's alright for me to explain. I open the kit and pull out a small roll of gauze. "I used to keep it with me for Armin. He...used to need an occasional emergency patch-up. Now, I guess it's just out of habit."

"Oh." Eren frowns. His green eyes are somewhat sad when they meet Armin's. "Sorry."

Armin shrugs. "Don't be."

"Did you clean it before you put that bandage on earlier?" I ask Eren.

"Uh…."

"I thought not." He watches me as I remove a couple of alcohol swabs and a tube of Neosporin. "Here." I hold out my hands. Hesitantly, he gives me his wounded arm, and I carefully unwrap the bloodied gauze.

Eren hisses through his teeth as I finish removing the old bandage. He has several areas of torn skin and raw patches across his knuckles. The edges are messy with blood and exudate. _He hit Jean pretty hard, indeed_. "Sorry," I whisper when he jerks beneath the raw sting of the alcohol swabs. "Try to stay still for me."

He grunts. "S'okay."

"Just a little more." I finish cleaning his knuckles as Armin watches quietly. "This Neosporin has lidocaine in it, so it should help soothe the pain." I spread the antibiotic using a fresh, non-adhesive pad, leaving it atop his knuckles as I reach for the roll of gauze.

"Ah," he sighs after a moment. "You're right...that's already helping."

I smile faintly and begin to wrap his hand, weaving around his thumb and keeping the pad over his knuckles for added protection. "Good. Too tight?"

Eren wiggles his fingers as I finish the final loop. "No, it's perfect." He examines my handiwork with a faint grin. "You're pretty good at that," he says. "Where'd you learn?"

"My mom." My eyes flicker down to the kit as I deftly pack away the supplies, tucking everything in save an extra roll of gauze, more alcohol wipes and the tube of Neosporin. Armin scribbles something down in his notebook.

Eren scratches the back of his head. "Cool. Does she work in healthcare?"

"No."

"Oh." He blinks. "Then…?"

I fiddle with my scarf for a moment, staring intently at the dark green fabric. "She's…." _Crushed glass and red spray and cold, so cold_. "My parents passed away when I was a kid."

Eren's face twists in sadness and apology. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry…I...shouldn't have pried." He looks down at his bandaged hand.

"It's okay. You didn't know."

"Yeah, but...I actually, uh...well, my mom died when I was a kid. My dad's still kicking around, though. At least, I think he is...haven't seen him in ages."

"Oh…."

Armin glances up. "I guess we all know what it's like, huh?" He presses his lips together in a frown, tapping his pencil against his notebook. "I was raised by my grandfather."

Eren sighs. "Damn." We're all quiet for several long moments, and then: "Well, as awful as it is...I guess it's nice to be understood, you know? What it's like to lose someone like that...no wonder the three of us are a bunch of weirdos." Armin snorts, and we all chuckle in an attempt to dispel the stir of unwanted memories.

"Here, Eren," I say after a pause. I push the gauze and Neosporin toward him. "You should take these...you'll need to change that bandage again before long." _If only it could remedy the real, deeper wounds. The ones we all carry_.

He smiles slightly. "Thanks, Mikasa."

"Sure." I return his smile, finding myself looking at those sea-green eyes of his, and I wonder how (or, rather, _why_ ) it is that we haven't met before. It's a silly thing to wonder, really, one of those frivolous musings that are rather unbecoming of a person accustomed to stoicism and solitude. But I wonder anyway. And with that, I wonder...perhaps this world, so prone to cruelty, is not exclusively so. Perhaps— _wide eyes and pure joy and the smell of baked goods_ —perhaps there is beauty in this world, as well.

* * *

 **(Sushi) Tuesday**

* * *

I meet Armin in the library after class because it's Sushi Tuesday. On my way to his usual spot in front of the far window, however, Levi stops me. "Hey, brat," he drawls, coming around the corner of his desk. "What's this I hear about you and some snot-nosed Jaeger kid?"

"What do you mean?"

Levi rolls his eyes. "Please. Petra said you two have been hanging out." He peers at me through bored, half-closed lids.

I fiddle with my muffler, loosening the fabric, before answering. "It's nothing," I say. "We just studied together yesterday."

"That's not what I heard."

I feign indifference. "Oh?"

He leans the broom he's been holding against a nearby wall and folds his arms over his chest. "He bought you coffee. And sweets from the bakery next door."

Hefting the strap of my bag, I shift my weight over to the other leg. "What I'm really hearing from this conversation is that you've been talking to Petra quite a bit. You guys finally a thing?"

"Don't avoid the question, brat."

"What? This road goes both ways. Midget."

Levi clicks his tongue. "You little shit," he mutters, but I see the brief glare of humor behind his placid expression.

I clear my throat, once again tugging lightly at my scarf. "Really, though, you don't need to worry—ask Armin. We just studied. He seems like a nice person."

"Tsk," he snorts. "There's nothing 'nice' about snot-nosed college guys." Levi reaches for the broom again, spotting a microscopic crumb fifty feet away. "I'll bet he doesn't even shower regularly. Filthy…."

I recall the image of Eren's gum wrappers, littered across his study space. Levi would've decapitated him out of pure disgust. Best not to let him in on that secret…. "Well, I should get back to Armin. He's expecting me...and I doubt he's eaten today."

"Uh-huh. Get a move on, then." Levi shoos me away with a flick of his black hair. As I head through the labyrinth of bookshelves, he adds, "I expect that area to be spotless when you two are done today. If I find even one crumb…."

"Does Petra know you're such a germaphobe?"

"She is, too. It's why I tolerate her."

"I'll tell her you said so."

"Shut up."

* * *

I've been staring at the final paragraph of my paper for at least thirty minutes when my phone buzzes. Armin is chewing happily on another of my protein bars (I swear, if I didn't make him eat on most afternoons, he would wither away). He looks up at the sound before returning to whatever math he's plugging through today. I pick up my phone with a sigh and look down at the screen.

It's from Eren (he exchanged numbers with Armin and I yesterday). _Where u guys at?_

Glancing briefly at Armin, I tap in a reply. _School library_.

 _Lucky. Smells like fish in here._

 _It always does on Tuesdays_.

 _What? Why didn't u warn me?_

 _I figured you would find out yourself._

 _Rude._

My head has been ducked for long enough now that Armin has taken notice. He glances over at me. "Is it Eren?" He asks.

"Yeah. He's complaining about the smell at Pen."

Armin chuckles. "Of course he is."

Another text comes through after a brief pause. _Im craving that pb fudge_.

I sigh in order to stifle a smirk. _Go get some, then._

 _Nuh, it's not the same as yesterday._

 _Because fish?_

 _Among other things._

I make an effort not to think too hard on that comment. My eyes flit back to the laptop screen, where my final paragraph squats unfinished and unsatisfactory. _Go study, you weirdo._

 _Rude._

It's an hour before Eren texts me again. By now I've managed to finish my conclusion, however, so I've moved on to editing. My phone buzzes. _I bet armin would want some pb fudge_ , he says.

 _You can ask him. He's in Math Mode right now though._

 _I will._

Almost immediately the sound of footsteps behind us, accompanied by the faint crinkle of what must be a plastic bag, increases until the person approaching comes to a halt. I would think it's Levi, except that he never makes that much noise.

"Oi, Armin, want some peanut butter fudge?" Eren leans in between the two of us, a smug smile turning his bruised face into a happy, mottled portrait. His green eyes are perilously close to mine.

Armin nearly jumps out of his skin as Eren plops the small bag of goodies on the smaller boy's textbook. "Gah!" He shouts in surprise, then slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, his eyes wide as he sweeps the area for any signs of Levi. "Uh, thank you, Eren. That was very thoughtful of you." His blue eyes settle into calm gratitude as he looks up at him.

"Ah, well, I couldn't take the fish smell anymore. I like fish and all," Eren says, "but when I'm trying to study, it's a little much."

"Yeah," Armin glances up at Eren in question before nabbing a piece of fudge, "that's why we stay away on Tuesdays."

Eren nods and blinks down at me. "I brought you a cookie," he smiles. "You like chocolate chip?"

"I do. Thank you." _Good thing I ran that extra mile this morning_.

His smile widens. "Cool. It's classic, you know—chocolate chip. Only crazy people don't like chocolate chip. Like my friend, Reiner...he's an oatmeal raisin guy. Total creep."

"Hey, snot-nose, you'd better watch yourself. Oatmeal raisin happens to be my favorite." Levi materializes out of the belly of some dark aisle to our left and settles a steely gaze on Eren. "Chocolate chip is for snivelling babies like you, apparently."

"Uh…." Eren gapes at my cousin, his eyes wide. "Sorry, Mr. Ackerman."

"Tsk." Levi looks the younger man up and down, assessing him with a critical eye. When he finishes, his stoic gaze moves over to where Armin and I are sitting, the damning evidence of our treats sitting blatantly on top of Armin's textbook. "I see you brats are making a mess of my library." He sighs heavily. "I'm afraid this won't do."

"Sir," Eren steps forward, "I take full responsibility. I brought the food...I'll clean up our mess."

Levi raises one eyebrow a fraction of an inch—whether it's out of surprise or condemnation, I can't quite tell. Even after living with my cousin for several years as a kid, I still find it difficult to read him at times. "Very well," he says. _Surprise, then_. "I'll let you three off the hook this time. But if I find even one fingerprint on this table by the end of the day, I'll have you guys staying after hours to clean the whole library from top to bottom." He blinks slowly at me. "Keep this snot-nose in line, will you, brat?" I nod; Levi gives us all one last long, disapproving look, before he glides away with broom in hand.

Armin stares at the two of us, relief plain in the set of his brow. "I can't believe he let us off like that. He's never been one to withhold punishment, even when Mikasa's here…."

"It's true," I say, drumming my fingers absentmindedly along the table. "He must be in a good mood today."

"A _good mood_?" Eren runs a hand through his scruffy head of hair. "In that case, I would hate to see him in a _bad_ mood. I've heard stories, but…."

"He's just severe," I say. "He has high expectations, but Levi isn't a menace or anything."

"Mmm. Fair enough." Eren pulls up a chair beside us. "So, uh, let's save that cookie for later, then?"

"Good idea."

* * *

I'm lying on my bed, staring at the tiled ceiling of my little dorm room, waiting for sleep to come. I glance to the side; my scarf is folded neatly on the nightstand beside me. It's especially quiet tonight on my floor. Perhaps because it's a Tuesday—most of us are in the thick of the week's studies.

After a few long minutes of pensive thought, my phone buzzes from where it rests beneath my pillow. I pull it out, blinking several times against the unwelcome burst of light, and see that it's Eren. _U asleep?_ He asks.

 _I was._

 _Shit. Sorry._

 _Just kidding...I'm awake. What's up?_

 _Ha. Did u eat ur cookie?_

 _You texted me at this hour just for that?_

 _What. Im curious._

I sigh into my pillow and brush a few strands of hair from my eyes. _Yes, I ate it. It was good. Thank you again._

 _Oh. Good._ There's a pause. _Does it bother u when ppl don't spell everything out when they txt?_

 _A little._

 _Knew it. Grammer natzi._

 _Grammar. Nazi._

 _Gramr nahtsii._

 _Lol._ I smile in spite of myself, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

Eren texts again after a moment. _So...u guys studying at the coffee shop tmrw?_

 _I will be. Armin's going to the library again though._

 _Oh okay._ Another pause. _Im gonna get there first and steal ur table._

 _I'll kick your ass._

 _Whoa! Mikasa's dark side._ I imagine his laugh, though of course I can't hear it. _Guess i shouldn't mess with u after yesterday. U did throw me across the room._

 _I carried you._

 _My butt still hurts. I think u broke my coccyx._

 _I was protecting you from Jean._

 _Ha! That horseface. Please. I was winning...I think u just wanted an excuse to pick me up._

I rub my eyes again, pausing to knead my forehead. The light is starting to give me a headache. _Uh-huh._

 _Oh so u did just want an excuse? Knew u liked me._

 _Stop._

 _U did this to yourself._

I snort. _I'm going to bed._

 _Okay. But for reals tho, mind if i join u tomorrow?_

My thumb hovers over the phone's surface, hesitating for only the briefest of moments. _Only if you let me buy this time._

 _Deal. Night, Mikasa._

 _Goodnight, Eren._

* * *

 **Wednesday - Friday**

* * *

Eren does, indeed, join me, and he keeps his promise by allowing me to pay for his coffee. It's startlingly comfortable with him there; we talk about normal things, like classes and books and favorite places to eat. And sometimes we talk about other, less-normal things—the name of Eren's old, blue WRX (it's Gregor); the sudden influx of plastic Santas; the dynamic between Reiner and one of Eren's other friends, Christa; Eren's penchant for mismatched socks and cheesy Christmas sweaters. It's all quite natural—surprisingly so. And so he joins me on Wednesday, and Thursday, and then again on Friday, and we sit and visit and study at the oasis table until it's time to meet my friends for dinner.

Eren opens the door for me as we plunge into the cold—only for a few moments, thankfully, since the restaurant is right next door. The others are just pulling up as we make our way inside. Sasha, eyes sparkling despite the fact that she's been forced to help pay tonight, jovially leads the way to a long table in the back, where our group has reserved a place for dinner. She plops down with a genuine smile and immediately begins pouring over the menu. Eren takes a seat between Armin and I—much to Jean's chagrin; I can feel his smoldering glare from across the table. Annie seats herself on Armin's other side with a half-smile.

"Ah, Jean," Marco squeezes his friend's shoulder, "You getting the tiger roll again? I know those are your favorites."

Jean looks down at his menu after blinking several times. "Yeah, sounds good. I'm getting an extra three this time."

"Hey!" Sasha sticks out her lower lip. "If you guys get to order extra, so do I!"

"Well yeah," Ymir drawls from beside Marco, "you're buying, so it doesn't matter."

"Oh, right. Well, Armin and Marco are, too. So if it's okay with them…."

Armin stiffens, his face turning several shades of red. Annie looks sharply over at him; her gaze is not accusing, though. It is strangely soft. "Uh, I don't mind, Sasha," Armin stammers.

Marco smiles. "Neither do I. Splitting it three ways takes the cost down quite a bit, anyway."

Eren leans closer to me. "What are you ordering?" he asks.

I chew lightly on my bottom lip. "Hmm...probably some spicy tuna rolls to start."

"Ooh, spicy."

"Stop."

He chortles and turns back to his menu. "I'm thinking some dragon rolls over here."

"Classic."

"You know it."

I blink and close my menu with a _tap_. "Eel, though...I don't know."

Eren sniffs. "No?"

"Too slimy."

He nods thoughtfully. "Fair enough, I guess."

I glance up to see Jean watching us with a scathing look on his face. Marco is trying (unsuccessfully) to distract him with some kind of chopsticks trick. Eren sees it, too. "Oi, Jean," he says, "take a chill pill."

Jean snorts. "Can it, Jaeger."

"Horseface. Did you see they have a special on alfalfa today?"

"Agh!" Jean slams his hands against the table, causing our ice waters to tremble precariously. "You little freak! Need another beating?"

I squeeze Eren's shoulder before he can stand. "Eren, don't." His brow crinkles into a scowl, but he remains seated.

"You two need to relax, or you'll have to pay for dinner!" Sasha shouts.

Ymir sighs. "No they won't. Stop trying to get out of this, Sasha."

"Aw."

With great effort, Jean drags his arms back down to his sides, muttering something under his breath. He glares over at Eren. "You don't know how lucky you are," he growls.

Eren frowns. "What?"

"Idiot. Nevermind."

I glance over at Armin—the Great Peacekeeper—but his attention is completely reserved for Annie at the moment. She leans closer to him, so slightly that if you didn't know her usual posture, you wouldn't be able to see it; her lips are moving, but I can't hear what she's saying. Armin points to something on her menu. She nods, brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, and sets the menu down, all while remaining close to him. Armin is smiling. Not the one he often wears—though that smile is just as genuine. No, this is a hopeful, quiet smile. I suspect it is one that he reserves exclusively for Annie.

It takes me a moment to realize that Eren is watching me, watching them. There's this strange look on his face—similar to the one he wore on Tuesday, when he tugged my muffler down at the bakery. It's intense and discerning and, like much of what I've been learning about Eren, it's _pure_. Undiluted. True. I resist the urge to pull my scarf up over my nose. He smiles.

We manage to plug through the rest of the evening without another major altercation between Jean and Eren. The tension remains ever-present, a current that makes itself known with each clipped remark or if-looks-could-kill glare, but the overall mood is still uplifting, all things considered. Perhaps because it's a Friday. Sasha is bursting with joy everytime a new plate is set before her. Ymir's amusement is clear in the way she observes the others, occasionally giving her two cents in a conversation. Marco is looking forward to his ultimate frisbee game tomorrow (he's sure we'll beat our rivals this time). Armin and Annie are relatively quiet, but peacefully so, as they seem content just to sit next to one another and enjoy their respective dishes. Eren helps himself to one of my spicy tuna rolls after I urge him to try one; in exchange, he makes me eat one of his eel-infested dragon rolls (it's just as slimy and rubbery as I remember). Jean manages to stifle the sour look on his face after nearly an hour; after that, he largely ignores the green-eyed boy across from him. At some point, Annie mentions that she was childhood friends with Reiner and Bertholdt, Eren's roommates. It's decided that we should do this again—or something similar—along with Eren and his other friends.

We rise to leave at the end of the meal, bellies pleasantly full, with the prospect of warm beds and oversleeping ahead of us.

Sasha sighs happily as we make our way to the front counter. She yawns, pulling her arms behind her head. Crumbs scatter across Ymir's shirt, who happens to be walking close behind her.

"Ugh, Sasha!" The freckled girl snarls as she hurriedly brushes a few grains of rice from her clothes. "How the hell do you leave so much debris behind? It's inhuman!"

"Huh?" Sasha turns her head to the side, clearly feeling the effects of an incoming food coma.

Ymir rolls her eyes. "Oh, forget it. Marco, I'm designating you as my personal shield from now on." She grabs the sleeve of his jacket and yanks him over, situating him between her and Sasha.

We make it to the counter; Marco, Sasha, and Armin pay their portions of the bill. There's a plastic Santa beside the register, guarding a jar of toothpicks. He's smiling at me with his plastic smile, his fake, rosy cheeks forever molded into a superficial grin. I glare at him.

Beside me, Eren leans close to whisper in my ear. "This is your chance," he says.

My charcoal eyes meet his green ones—again, so perilously close. I can see the exact hue from right here, the precise slivers of sea and grass and sunlight-through-tree-leaves as they combine to paint that gaze of his. "Chance for what?"

He nods toward the plastic usurper. "We were talking about the invasion of the plastic Santas the other day, right?" A slow smile creeps onto his face. "I say we strike back."

I continue to stare at him, unsure of just how I should respond to that.

"We'll drive them out," he says. "We'll destroy them—every last one. Starting here, today."

I would laugh if not for the deliberately serious look on his face. "Are you…."

"Kidding?" He straightens slightly with another chortle. "Yeah. I mean, we can't go around destroying people's property I guess. But here…." He reaches out and turns the plastic Santa around so that his back is toward us, his toothpicks left unguarded. "Better? Ah, wait—" Eren grabs a pair of toothpicks from the jar. "There we go. Take that, asshole—I just stole two of your toothpicks. How's it feel, huh?"

"What the hell?" Jean, who has overheard this unfortunate conversation, is staring at the two of us with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

I spin around. "Um, Eren was just—"

Jean shakes his head. "Nevermind. I, uh, probably don't want to know, do I?"

"Probably not," I say. Eren is suspiciously quiet beside me; I think it may have to do with the fact that he's trying his best to stifle an outburst of laughter.

Jean narrows his eyes at him. He opens his mouth to say something, then seems to change his mind. He shakes his head again. "I'm outta here," he mutters. "See you guys later, huh?" he calls over his shoulder as he heads for the door. Marco ducks after him.

"Bye, horseface!" Sasha yells, waving more crumbs around. Ymir bristles.

"Can it, Sasha," Jean snaps.

The rest of us make our way to the door, Annie and Armin lingering for a moment as they usually do. She brushes her hair back and looks down at the patterned carpet; Armin listens intently as she tells him something I don't catch. He nods, smiling, before they part in subtle reluctance. We step out into the snowy night, grasping our scarves and hoods to stave off the cold.

Sasha glances back at us as she makes her way to her car. "Bye, guys! I'm glad you came, Eren. Don't worry about Jean—he'll come around!"

Eren lifts a hand in farewell. "See you guys. Thanks for dinner!"

"Eren, I'm thinking Sasha isn't the only one who's glad you came to dinner, hmm?" Ymir throws a pointed look that cuts through the falling snow and pierces through me, just as sharp as it was at its origin. I bury my face further into my muffler.

After the others are gone, Eren rummages through his coat pocket until he finds his keys. "Ready?" he asks. We carpooled today, since our dorms are just across the street from one another.

"Yeah."

It's a relatively short drive back to campus; Eren is strangely silent, but not uncomfortably so. I find myself wondering what he's thinking about. Perhaps he's just focused on the roads. In any case, we're pulling up to the student parking lot before I know it. The lot is just a block or so away from our dorms; Eren is adamant about walking me to my room, muttering something about how icy the steps can be, and so we trudge through the snow together.

"Your friends are nice," he muses as we pass beneath a street lamp. "I like them. Well, except Jean, of course. He's an ass."

I tug on my hood. "Not always. He's just…."

"Jealous?"

"Yeah."

Eren hums, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "Guess I can't blame him." He sniffs. "Anyway...this week has been fun, you know. Hanging out and stuff."

"It has," I find myself agreeing as I smile wistfully into the fabric of my muffler. The path ahead of us curves slightly; we're nearing my dorm.

Eren looks up. "What floor are you on?"

"Third."

"Cool. Me too. In my dorm, I mean."

"Right."

"You don't have any roommates?"

"No. I'm one of the few on my floor who doesn't."

He grunts as we near the steps, and light from the doorway spills onto the snow. "Doesn't it get...I mean…?"

"Lonely?" I pull my hood down and shake off my boots; Eren opens the door for me and follows me inside. There isn't any ice in here, obviously...his excuse is no longer valid. But I find that I quite like the feeling of walking beside him. I glance over to see him shaking snow from his hair. He catches me watching and smiles widely. "Sometimes, I guess," I answer Eren's question. "But I'm used to it."

"Huh." Eren trails along, examining the various photos and decorations posted along the walls of the hallway. "That's kinda sad," he says, his smile waning.

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" he hesitates, perhaps not having meant to voice that comment aloud, "being used to loneliness. You know? It just sounds like you would have to be lonely a lot more than _sometimes_ to get there."

"Oh." I'm not quite sure how to respond to that, so instead I follow his example and study the pictures on the walls for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe that's just part of life. Loneliness, I mean."

"Maybe," Eren concedes as we make our way up the stairs. I listen to the fall of his boots against the carpet, measuring the rhythm in his steps, and after several long moments of _thump-drag-thump-huff_ we make it to my floor. Eren follows me down the hall and we stop in front of my door: plain and unmarked, aside from a thin scratch just above the knob, a memory left over by a prior tenant.

I pause, turning to Eren, who is watching me with that strange expression on his face. "Thank you," I say, "for walking me to my room. And for this week."

"Sure." He smiles. "I'll, uh, see you this weekend, maybe?"

"Yeah. Text me?"

"Will do." He blinks.

I shift awkwardly in the doorway. "Okay. Um, well, be careful walking back to your dorm...goodnight, Eren."

"Goodnight, Mikasa."

It takes me only a second to find my key and unlock the door, splitting the carpet at my feet with a shadow that stretches into the cool emptiness of my room. I stifle a sigh and enter, moving to shut the door behind me. At the last second, however, Eren puts his hand out.

"Mikasa?"

I hesitate— _is that relief?_ —and peek out at him from behind the half-closed door. "Eren?"

"Uh…" his former confidence seems to stall for a moment. "I just...wanted to say...that you don't have to."

My fingers freeze against the cool surface of the door. "Don't have to what?" I whisper.

He blinks at me once, slowly, then seems to make up his mind. Eren reaches out and gently tugs at the top edge of my scarf, pulling it down so that he can see my face properly. He watches me for a moment. He leans forward. Time freezes; I'm certain that the entire world is holding its breath in this second, this inhale, waiting to see what happens next. His hand lingers near my face, moving to brush a strand of hair away from my eyes. "You don't...have to be used to loneliness," Eren says.

I stare at him. He stares back. Does the sea-green of his eyes ever end? I'm certain now that it doesn't. Here is that perilous proximity, come to threaten my bubble of normalcy, and I'm okay with this nearness for the first time that I can remember. _Perhaps...perhaps there is beauty in this world_. Eren closes that last, laden distance between us and presses a kiss—gentle and sure—to my cheek. He pulls back slowly; his hand remains behind my ear, where he has tucked away that unruly lock of hair. A quiet smile graces his lips. "That's what I wanted to say," he breathes. "Goodnight, Mikasa."

It takes several seconds for me regain my breath; Eren takes a step back and prepares to go. "Goodnight, Eren," I say, and with that smile of his, he makes his way back through the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the snow.

* * *

My phone buzzes just before I fall asleep, alight with a single message: _B_ _akery tmrw?_

 _I'll be there._

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! A note about Jean: I realize it may seem like I'm bashing on him in this chapter...in reality, I think he's a cool character (good development and whatnot); however, I'm also very strongly an Eremika fan (obviously), and Jean is known to get violent with Eren quite easily—especially when jealousy / general disagreement comes into play, since they both have such bad tempers. On another note...as far as Mikasa's character goes, I'm trying to remain true to her within the context of this story (i.e. what would her relationship with Eren look like when he didn't save her life or grow up with her, etc?). That said...let me know what you think? Thanks again for taking the time to read!**


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